


finally home

by flirtingwithtrackers



Series: home is where the orgasms are [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Fingerfucking, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtingwithtrackers/pseuds/flirtingwithtrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bellamy comes home from work to find clarke on the couch</p><p>"Her attempt at watching tv is ruined as Bellamy lightly nips at her skin, making her close her eyes and slowly lean her head back onto the arm of the couch. A moan slips past her lips as he nibbles lightly at her earlobe before trailing hot, wet kisses back down her neck."</p><p>or, the one with couch sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	finally home

**Author's Note:**

> written for the lovely [griffinclarke](http://griifinclarke.tumblr.com) :)))
> 
> litERALLY JUST FINGERFUCKING AND HICKIES I AM NOT SORRY
> 
> hope you guys like it!!!! i haven't posted in a while so hAVE SOME SMUT

He lets out a long sigh as he pushes the front door closed with his foot, leaning back on the door for a few moments. A smile spreads across his face when he sees waves of blonde hair tumbling over the couch arm centered in the living room before him. He places his stuff on the kitchen table, shrugging off his coat and quickly unbuttoning his dress shirt. By the time he makes it to the couch, Bellamy’s pulling the shirt off, tossing it into a chair, leaving him in a white t-shirt.

Clarke is spread across the couch, her back nestled into the corner of the couch and her legs stretched out over the cushions. Bellamy climbs up onto the couch, proceeding to drape himself over her, his face nuzzling into the space between her neck and shoulder. One arm snakes around her waist, pulling himself closer into her before letting out another long sigh into her neck as he gets comfortable.

“That bad?” Clarke says, rubbing a hand over his hair. He hums before burying his face further into her neck.

She only grumbles a little before going back to watching _Grey’s Anatomy_ reruns. She runs a soothing hand up and down his back, her fingers tangling briefly into the curls at the base of his neck before dragging back down his shoulder blades. It’s not long before Bellamy is pressing a chaste kiss to the soft skin of her neck. Clarke spreads her thighs so the brunt of his lower body is on the couch instead of pressing into her knees uncomfortably, his hip falling in between her thighs. His torso presses down onto her chest deliciously as his lips continue peppering her throat with kisses, his tongue peeking out to lick at her skin.

Her attempt at watching tv is ruined as Bellamy lightly nips at her skin, making her close her eyes and slowly lean her head back onto the arm of the couch. A moan slips past her lips as he nibbles lightly at her earlobe before trailing hot, wet kisses back down her neck. Clarke’s breath quickens as she feels Bellamy’s hand drag up her inner thighs, his fingers cold against her heated skin. She unconsciously spreads her legs apart and his hand moves further up her thigh. He pauses to draw a maddening design into the rosy skin. 

His hand sneaks into her small sleep shorts, his fingers brushing over the scalloped edges of her panties. Clarke thinks she hears a _nice shorts_ chuckled into her ear as Bellamy makes fun of her pajama shorts, which are a light blue decorated with small white hearts (and a giant wine stain), but she’s not paying too much attention as he lightly rubs her through the cotton of her underwear. Clarke moans into their living room, her head dropping back further into the cushion, as Bellamy hooks a finger into the elastic of her underwear and pushes the material out of the way. He bites lightly at her jawbone as he drags two fingertips down her slit, gathering her wetness as he sweeps his fingers back up.

He groans, the sound gravelly, and Clarke feels another wave of arousal rush through her. Bellamy mumbles into her hair, “God, Clarke, you’re so wet.”

He dips the tip of his finger into her and makes a pained sound, quietly murmuring into her skin, _so wet and warm, ready for me_. His thumb rubs at her clit as Bellamy slowly presses his middle finger into her. A few long pumps and he’s adding another finger, Clarke moaning breathily at the slow stretch. Bellamy builds up to a steady speed, his breath hot against her neck as his fingers move deliberately in and out of her heat.

He rubs a slow circle into her clit every few pumps, causing Clarke to cry out, her legs dropping open even further. Her heel slips off the couch then, her foot landing on the carpet, and Bellamy laughs at the small yelp she makes. She giggles along with him, until his fingers curl inside her on a long, deep pump. He reaches that spot so easily with his long, lean fingers and Clarke moans loudly, unashamed.

“I can _hear_ how wet you are, Clarke,” he says, and he knows she’s probably flushing furiously—wouldn’t be able to look at him if her eyes weren’t already closed—even though he feels her cunt clench around him at his words. “You feel perfect around my fingers.”

Bellamy hisses as Clarke’s fingernails sink into his bicep just under the sleeve of his t-shirt. She clutches as his arms, trying to ground herself as he continues to fuck his fingers into her. Clarke arches her neck to the side, giving Bellamy more room as she feels his teeth scrape against her neck. He sucks and bites, worrying the skin at the base of her neck, even though she may kill him later when she sees the impressive bruise blooming on her skin, an angry red fading into a petal pink. 

Her breath quickens, her chest heaving underneath Bellamy, and she cants her hips upwards to meet his fingers, crying out when he presses down hard on her clit with rough pad of his thumb. 

“You like that?” he asks, before smiling at the exasperated whine that echoes throughout the living room. She’d probably hit him if he didn’t press another maddening circle onto her sensitive clit, any witty retort dying on her lips as a moan escapes instead.

The long, thorough strokes that have Clarke’s eyes squeezing shut and her toes curling when his middle finger rubs deep inside her turn into fast, shallow strokes that have her breath loud and hurried above him as he kisses up her throat. She arches her back and her hand grabs at his shoulder through the thin white material of his undershirt, his name a mantra on her tongue. A breathy chorus of _Bellamy_ in between ragged moans fills the living room, drowning out the sounds of the television.

Bellamy is biting softly at her collarbone, running his tongue along the curve, as Clarke stumbles over the edge, her body spasming under him. Her arousal coats his fingers and he smiles into her neck, all of his stress and worries long gone—quickly replaced by the sound of Clarke’s desperate moans, the sweet smell of Clarke surrounding him, and his own hot desire buzzing through his veins. He hears the sounds of someone dying on _Grey’s Anatomy_ , the beeping of machines coming loudly from the speakers, as Clarke lies back, trying to slow her breathing, and Bellamy smiles into the skin of her neck, feeling at home on their ratty secondhand couch in their small apartment. He chuckles at the sappy thought of _Clarke_ being his home, not that it isn’t true, and he rubs at her shoulder blades with the arm he has wedged between her back and the couch.

He doesn’t move, his body laying over half of her torso as his side presses up against the back of the couch. Bellamy removes his fingers, eliciting a small sigh from Clarke, letting her underwear move back over her sensitive sex. He brings his hand up to his face to place his fingers in his mouth, lifting up from the warmth of her neck and leaning back just far enough that Clarke can watch through hooded eyes as he sucks her wetness from his fingers. He can’t stop his eyes from closing in awe at her tangy, familiar taste. Bellamy hears Clarke’s quiet whine and he opens his eyes to see her dilated pupils staring at his mouth.

He scissors his fingers in his mouth, his tongue pressing into the space in between them. Clarke can see the small pink triangle of his tongue peaking out as he licks the rest of her from his fingers and her thighs tense automatically, trying to close, desperate for friction. He pulls his fingers from his mouth with an obscene slurping noise that makes Clarke want to cringe, but she shivers instead, a small swell of desire building up lazily inside her again.

Bellamy settles back into her neck. “You taste perfect,” he whispers into her neck, his tongue tracing the red mark he made there moments before. “You’re perfect,” he adds.

His hand pushes up her t-shirt to span around her bare hip. Clarke can feel the stickiness of his fingers on her skin. She lifts the leg that fell off the couch, shifting her center towards Bellamy and throwing her leg over hip as she lifts her head from the couch arm to press a firm kiss to his lips. Not long after, Clarke’s moaning his name again as he sinks into her heat, the taste of _her_ still lingering as he licks into her mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think
> 
> as always, you can come cry with me on [tumblr](http://clarkeslight.tumblr.com) :))


End file.
